


The Queen of the Sea

by chanderson



Series: Young, Scrappy, and Hungry [18]
Category: Hamilton - Miranda
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Angst, Established Relationship, M/M, Natural Disasters, Older Man/Younger Man, Politics
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-06-20
Updated: 2017-06-28
Packaged: 2018-11-16 16:22:01
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 12,654
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11256606
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/chanderson/pseuds/chanderson
Summary: “Are you okay, George?”The breath gets caught in George’s throat and he shrugs helplessly, not knowing what to say. Thousands of people are dying in Ceylon, Martha has been dead for 10 years, and George is getting remarried in a month and a half.Okay is a relative term.





	1. Okay is a Relative Term

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is kind of based off the tsunami that hit Sri Lanka in 2004 (because I'm unoriginal as fuck). Ceylon isn't a real country per-say, it's actually what Sri Lanka used to be called under British colonial rule. The city names are made up. 
> 
> I mention the OCHA. That's the Office for the Coordination of Humanitarian Aid. I mention the partial title in the fic, but it's led by Under-Secretary-General for Humanitarian Affairs and Emergency Relief Coordinator. That office is currently held by Stephen O'Brien. 
> 
> Enjoy!

There are two types of tired. 

There’s the tired where your eyes feel droopy and you know that, if you let gravity work it’s magic, they would slide shut and you’d be asleep in seconds. It’s an annoying tired, but altogether manageable. Just keep blinking. Shake your head a little. Rub your eyes until you see spots. Drink some coffee. 

Then there’s the tired where you feel like shit. Your head hurts with a sharp pain right above your eye sockets. Your eyes burn and keep glazing over, sending everything just slightly out of focus. You feel a little off balance, almost dizzy but not quite. You’re nauseous in the low key kind of way that just sticks around low in your gut all day long. This kind of tired isn’t so manageable. Moving your head is painful. Blinking doesn’t do shit. And drinking coffee only makes you want to throw up. 

George is currently tired number two. 

He’s in the Sit Room, but he can barely focus past the stabbing, relentless pain in his head and the unsettled, sick feeling crawling up his throat. 

So he just stands there and lets everyone talk over each other, the conversation volleying back and forth between different aides and cabinet members as everyone debates the United States’ strategy in the wake of the problem that landed them here:

At approximately 11:48 a.m. Indian Standard Time, a massive tsunami struck Ceylon, a small island country to the South of India in the Indian Ocean. The South and East shores were hit the hardest.

So the reason George is so incredibly, painfully tired? 11:48 a.m. Indian Standard Time is 2:18 a.m. Eastern Standard Time. Depending on when they went to bed, everyone is running on around 2 to 3 hours of sleep. 

And the devastation is horrifying, draining to look and think about. In the eastern Kashgaran District alone, almost 3,000 and counting are reported dead. A holiday train, somewhat ironically named Queen of the Sea was struck carrying passengers between the capital Jalkata and Yatota, the country’s second largest city. The death toll in the crash alone is expected to rise to around 5,000 as people begin to pick through the wreckage.

Edmund Randolph, George’s secretary of state has been on the phone and video chatting with India’s Minister of External Affairs, Sushma Swaraj, for the past hour trying to coordinate a relief effort. So far India has dispatched their navy medical team to Jalkata, and are planning on sending ships, troops, helicopters, and airplanes as soon as they can get everything in motion. 

Charles Lee, the Chairman of the Joint Chiefs is busy building up an American military relief effort, looking at sending Marines from the naval base in Diego Garcia. 

“Sir? Mr. President?” 

George blinks as Lafayette and Angelica rush up to where he’s standing behind his chair at the head of the table. They both have crazed looks in their eyes and are in varying states of disarray. Angelica’s hair is falling out of her ponytail and Lafayette’s shirt is only half tucked-in. 

“Yes?” he asks, eyeing them warily. 

“We need to start calling up aid organizations and asking them to go to Ceylon,” Lafayette says quickly, earning a glare from Angelica.

“Sir,” she says exasperatedly. “We don’t want to flood the place with a bunch of relief workers who are going to get in the way of search and rescue. We need to focus on getting a UN force out there. No one has even brought up sending in the UN yet!”

George pinches the bridge of his nose and sighs. “Angelica’s right. Someone get me Ambassador Stirling on the phone.”

Angelica shoots Lafayette a smug grin and Lafayette glares at her. “Right away, Sir,” he mutters. 

They both hurry away, absorbed back into the flurry of activity in the room, and George rubs his eyes and tries to blink himself awake. Sadly, it does nothing to get rid of the fuzzy feeling in his head, almost like his head’s been stuffed full of cotton balls. 

“I got you some more coffee, love,” Alex murmurs as he suddenly seems to appear next to George, gently touching his elbow. George turns and smiles tiredly, accepting the paper cup Alex hands him. 

“Thanks.” George tips the coffee back and takes several sips of it, shuddering at how hot it is. Alex sets his own cup of coffee down and rubs his hands together. 

“What’d I miss while I was gone?” 

“Nothing much,” George sighs. “The death toll is rising, though. It’s awful, Alex. No American news outlets are there yet—all their reporters are on planes headed over there right now, but some Indian news reporters travelled over with the navy medical team and it’s just… it’s horrific.” 

Just then Lafayette walks back up and hands George a phone. “Ambassador Stirling, Sir,” he says softly. George nods in thanks and takes the phone.

“Hello, Mr. Ambassador,” he says. “Sorry for waking you so early.” 

Stirling chuckles and heaves a sigh. “Not a problem, Sir. I was already awake. I’ve been in contact with Under-Secretary General O’Brien, and he’s calling a video conference of the OCHA. So far he’s thinking of deploying Turkey’s branch of the International Search and Rescue Advisory Group. They’re the closest to Ceylon.”

George nods and takes a more cautious sip of his coffee, not wanting to completely burn the tastebuds off his tongue. “Okay, that sounds great. Thank you Ambassador. If more needs to be done, make sure you tell O’Brien that we’re willing to dispatch our branch too. It might take us a little longer to get there, but I’m sure you’d agree that we’re willing to help.”

“Of course, Sir,” Stirling says. 

“And we might want to think about getting the World Health Organization out there. I know the Red Cross is already mobilizing, and call me a big government guy, but I prefer to leave stuff like this up to international and government agencies. NGOs are great and all, but I’d rather them come in once everything’s a little less hectic.”

“I agree, Sir. I’ll bring that up.”

“Perfect. Keep me updated.”

George hangs up and hands the phone back to Lafayette, sighing when he sees the annoyed look on his face. “Look, Gil—”

“Sir, if I may,” he interjects. “The Red Cross is good at what it does. I don’t understand your lack of support for their intervention.”

“Gil, I don’t want to argue about this. It’s not like my opinion matters. The Red Cross is going to show up no matter what I think.”

Lafayette huffs and nods. “I know—”

“Okay, then it’s a non-issue,” George snaps. Lafayette glares at him and nods tersely. 

“Sorry, Sir,” he spits before turning on his heel and walking over to where Angelica is hunched over a stack of papers. 

George sighs and rubs his eyes. Lafayette and he almost never fight or snap at each other, even when it has to do with work. The guilt of snapping at him settles in George’s stomach and he squeezes his fists, trying to ignore it. He doesn’t have time to focus on anything but the thousands of dead people floating in the Indian Ocean. 

“You okay?” Alex asks softly, squeezing his hand. 

George wants to laugh. Absolutely nothing about this is okay, but he knows that if he starts talking like that he won’t be able to stop, so he just nods shortly and squeezes Alex’s hand back. 

“Yeah.” 

It’s all he can manage to say. 

“Sir,” Randolph says breathlessly as he quickly walks up, looking just as out of sorts as everyone else. His usually carefully coiffed brown hair is lying flat on his forehead and it makes him look almost boyishly handsome. In any other situation George would laugh. At 50, Randolph is handsome for his age, but boyish isn’t a word anyone would normally use to describe him. George nods and claps him on the shoulder. 

“What’ve you got for me?” 

“India is preparing to send in troops, and Canada’s Minister of Foreign Affairs, Chrystia Freeland, said that Canada is going to send in members of their Disaster Assistance Response Team.”

“How many?” 

“100 right now, but I’m going to convince her to send in at least 150. She said they can be there in two days.”

George nods and squeezes Randolph’s shoulder. “Thanks Edmund. Good work.” 

“Thank you Sir,” he says, absently reaching up to wipe the sweat off his brow. 

“Do you know where Charles is with getting those Marines dispatched?” 

“They’re getting ready to depart as we speak, Sir.” 

“Perfect. Go home and get a shower and some sleep, Edmund. The disaster isn’t going anywhere.” 

Randolph smiles gratefully and nods. “Thank you, Sir. I’ll have my phone on.”

George nods and claps his hands to get everyones’ attention. The room immediately grinds to a halt, the only sound the quiet hum of the news on the T.V.. 

“Everyone go home, shower, and try to get a couple hours of sleep. We’ve been at this for a while now, and I can tell we’re all about to fall out. Be back here at ten. And keep your phones on in case we need to get in touch with you.”

Everyone stares at George for a few seconds, seemingly frozen to their spots, before they all give George relieved, exhausted smiles and gather up their things. 

Lafayette walks up to him and pulls him into a hug. “Sorry for getting a little testy earlier,” he says in George’s ear. 

“It’s alright, Brother. I was acting like an ass too,” George says. 

Lafayette smiles and pats him on the back. “Get some sleep.” 

“You too. Tell Adrienne and the kids I said ‘hi.’” Lafayette nods and heads out, shrugging his jacket on as he goes.

George finally turns to Alex and takes his hand. “Lets get some sleep.” 

\---

George dreams about dead bodies. 

They’re floating in what was once crystal blue water. Now it’s brown, tainted by mud, debris, and human waste. Corpses bob in the ebb and flow of the waves, tugged back and forth along the ravaged shore. 

Drowning deaths aren’t beautiful like in the movies. The waves aren’t peaceful. The water isn’t gentle. 

Drowning deaths are violent and lonely. 

The waves rip people apart, twisting and breaking their bones. Their corpses end up blackened and swollen, mouths forever open in silent screams. 

Mother Nature has no compassion for the living and no mercy for the dead. 

\---

“George you need to wake up, honey.” 

George sluggishly blinks and shakes his head, groaning as he tries to roll over. 

Alex’s hand is lightning fast and he reaches out to hold George in place. “Nope, you can’t go back to sleep. We need to get up and shower.”

“No, no. We can sleep more,” George slurs. Above him, Alex chuckles and gently strokes his cheek. 

“Come on, get up baby,” Alex says, still chuckling. George groans again and sits up so he can stretch his arms over his head. 

Wisps of his dream still linger in his mind and he shivers. 

“I don’t want to watch more people die,” he sighs. 

“I know,” Alex murmurs. “Don’t think about that just yet. Lets take a shower and talk about other things.” 

“What other things?” George asks as he hauls himself out of bed and stumbles into the bathroom, still groggy and half-asleep as he clumsily lifts the toilet seat and takes a piss. Alex turns on the shower and shrugs, a small smile playing at the corner of his mouth.

“Our wedding, maybe?” 

George smiles and washes his hands before kissing Alex square on the lips. Alex laughs and pushes on George’s chest. “You taste like stale coffee.”

“So do you,” George points out. Alex just rolls his eyes and gets in the shower. 

“Yeah whatever. Back to our wedding. Maria and I have been looking at color schemes—”

“Maria?” George asks, racking his brain for who the fuck that is. Alex elbows George’s side and scoffs. 

“Maria Reynolds, our wedding planner.”

“Right,” George says sheepishly as he starts lathering Alex’s hair with shampoo. Alex smiles and shrugs. 

“She and I were thinking of maybe doing navy and white—”

“No,” George says immediately, shuddering. “Absolutely not.” 

“Why?” Alex asks, obviously taken aback. “You love the color navy.”

“Those were the colors at me and Martha’s wedding,” George whispers hoarsely. “Navy, white, and powder blue.” 

Alex tenses and turns to face George after he finishes rinsing his hair. “Shit, I’m sorry. So, okay, none of that.”

“We can do navy with other colors, but not with white.”

“Okay, well, we were also thinking that a monochrome wedding might be cool. So we could do a few different blues and then maybe a silver. What about that?” Alex asks as he washes his body.

George shrugs. “Yeah that sounds nice. It would be nice and simple.”

“Exactly.” Alex smiles and pecks George’s lips. “We’re also obviously holding it at Mt. Vernon.”

“How many people are going to be there? We don’t exactly have very much family between the two of us.”

Alex laughs and twists the water off. “Well, we’ll have to invite some people from the government, which will be a fucking nightmare. It’ll be such a power thing, you know? Who does and doesn’t get invited. But we’ll worry about that later. I’ll make sure we keep the guest list as short as possible.”

George arches an eyebrow and dries himself off. “I have a feeling that it’s going to be a lot longer than I would like.” 

“I _promise_ it won’t be,” Alex says, rolling his eyes. “C’mon, this is supposed to be exciting. It’s a wedding, not a fucking funeral.”

George doesn’t know how to tell Alex that he can’t stop thinking about Martha, that a second wedding in the same place he married her feels like a betrayal. 

So he doesn’t. 

He reminds himself that this is Alex’s first—and hopefully only—wedding. It needs to be special. Plus, George is president. A quick wedding in the court house wouldn’t exactly look very… presidential. 

Alex keeps chattering away as they get dressed, and George envies his ability to compartmentalize. People are dying by the thousands and here they are discussing different shades of blue. It makes George’s stomach turn. 

Alex must notice because he grabs George’s hand and gives him a searching look, his forehead creased in worry.

“Are you okay, George?”

The simple, platinum engagement ring that George bought for Alex shortly after the inauguration shines on his finger, the thin ring of diamonds sparkling in the warm light of the closet. 

The breath gets caught in George’s throat and he shrugs helplessly, not knowing what to say. Thousands of people are dying in Ceylon, Martha has been dead for 10 years, and George is getting remarried in a month and a half. 

_Okay is a relative term._

“Yeah, I’m alright. Just tired and stressed,” George says softly. Alex bites his lip, looking like he wants to say something. He opens his mouth before closing it and smiling. 

“Don’t worry, we’ll get some breakfast and another round of coffee before heading back down to the Sit Room.” 

George knows that it wasn’t what Alex wanted to say, but he lets it go. 

They walk to breakfast hand-in-hand, and George eats some eggs that taste like ash on his tongue and settle like a rock in his stomach. He keeps one eye on Alex, who is back to enthusiastically discussing the wedding plans he and Maria are making, and one eye on the news on his phone. 

The death toll is up to 10,450. 

It’s only the first day. 

“—We’re definitely going to have an open bar and a buffet-style meal because apparently that’s how all Southern weddings are—”

“We should get to the Sit Room,” George says, cutting Alex off. 

Alex frowns, gets up, and walks over to George’s chair. He lays the back of his hand against George’s forehead and cheek.

“Are you feeling okay, George? You’re acting… weird.”

George heaves a sigh and lets his eyes slide shut as Alex cradles his head against his chest. 

“People are dying and we’re talking about a wedding,” he says. 

Alex sighs. “I’m just trying to keep my mind off of everything. I’m sorry.”

George shrugs and opens his eyes. “It’s fine. I’m just feeling—It’s upsetting.” 

“I know,” Alex murmurs. “But it’s really going to be okay. We’re going to help these people.”

“I sure hope so.” 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Honestly idk what this is, but I wanted to write about an international crisis b/c I haven't done that yet. Sorry I'm not creative enough to come up with my own conflict. I swear a lot of the details about the relief effort and stuff are all mine. (Took a lot of research lmao).
> 
> Since Catharine Schuyler is now Veep and now longer UN Ambassador, "Lord Stirling" has taken over that job (not his real name obvs, but I'm making him go by that b/c that's how he's known.)
> 
> As always, I love y'all's comments. 
> 
> This is Alex's [engagement ring.](http://www.cartier.com/en-us/collections/engagement/gifts/wedding-bands-for-men/b4071400-classic-wedding-band.html) In my head, George and Alex picked the ring out together, with Alex making the final decision. (Technically this is a wedding band, but WHATEVER. Now it's an engagement ring.)


	2. The Place Where the Sea Meets the Sky

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> OKAY ngl I fucking love this chapter and am pretty proud of it. I had a lot of fun writing it, so I hope everyone enjoys it! 
> 
> Shoutout to everyone who suggested the idea of going into Alex and his reaction to this!
> 
> Historical Fact: William Gopallawa was the last Governor-General of British Ceylon and the first President of Sri Lanka when it declared itself a republic in 1972. I use him as the President of Ceylon. The Sri Lankan (in our case Ceylonian) President's formal title is 'Your Excellency.'

Alexander Hamilton doesn’t like storms. 

Correction: Alexander Hamilton _hates_ storms. 

He’s not afraid of them per-say, not anymore at least. He just hates them. Hates the rain, the thunder, the lightning. 

That was the best part of living in New York. He could ignore what little sky he could see, the little sliver that peaked out from between the sprawling cityscape. He felt safe in New York, sheltered by all those buildings. 

It wasn’t like that in Nevis. There, it was all sky—the kind of sky that stretched on and on until it met the water’s edge. 

When he was a young boy, Alex used to imagine that the place where the sea met the sky must be the edge, the point of no return. He used to shudder at the thought of it. What would happen if he fell off? 

His mother always assured him that the sea and the sky? They were friendly. Nature’s gift to mankind. 

_“Look how beautiful, Alexander. Nothing this beautiful will ever hurt you.”_

Maybe his mother was naive. Maybe she was just trying to comfort him. 

Either way, she was wrong.

The sea and the sky are volatile, capable of impossible acts of terror. Mother Nature is one hundred times more dangerous than any man or machine could ever hope of being. 

Alex will never forget the sound of the wind howling or the thick sheets of rain that beat down on their roof like a drum. He will never forget the sound of building’s crumbling or people’s screams as the sea flooded the island, mixing with the rain water to fill the streets like the canals of Venice. 

He will never forget picking through the rubble and finding dusty, bloody hands sticking up through slabs of concrete. He will never forget the stench of death. 

The sea and the sky, he decided, were not his friends. 

\---

“George,” Alex says as he hurries into the Sit Room. “President Gopallawa is on the phone for you. He’s just been evacuated to Chennai, the capital of Tamil Nadu, India. 

George looks over from where his eyes are glued to the screen. CNN’s Anderson Cooper just arrived in Ceylon and the images are brutal. Alex quickly looks away from the screen and impatiently holds the phone out. “He’s waiting,” Alex says, pushing the phone into George’s hands. He nods and clears his throat. 

“Hello Your Excellency,” George says. “I’m happy to hear that you’re safe.” 

_Safe? Sure he’s safe, but his home is destroyed. He has nothing left_ , Alex thinks, shivering.

George is drumming his fingers on the back of the chair and Alex wants to tell him to stop; the sound is making Alex’s stomach churn with anxiety. But he doesn’t because he needs to get his shit together. No one needs him freaking out and projecting his own sad experience on this. George is already getting all weird and spacey. Alex can’t start freaking out.

He refocuses on George, noting the clench of his jaw. 

“Your Excellency, I’m sorry but we’re doing everything we can at the moment,” George says, his patience obviously wearing thin. “Our Marines should be landing on your shore any minute now, and I can assure you that we’ve been in constant contact with the UN and other world powers working to get aid to your people. The United States is your ally in this fight.”

He’s silent as he listens to whatever President Gopallawa is saying, but his eyes are flashing and he grabs the back of the chair, squeezing it so hard that his knuckles turn white. When he speaks again, his voice is cold. 

“The United States is doing everything we can, and I’m insulted that you would suggest otherwise, Your Excellency. We—”

He stops talking and Alex can hear President Gopallawa’s voice through the phone speaker. George makes a frustrated sound low in his throat and has to take a deep breath. His entire body is tensed up, coiled tight. 

“I think we’re done here,” George snaps before pushing the end call button and angrily shoving the chair away from the table, sending it rolling into the wall. “That son of a bitch!” George shouts. “Who the _fuck_ does he think he is?” 

Everyone in the room instantly goes silent, a few state department aide’s mouths dropping open in surprise. Alex quickly grabs George’s arm and tugs him toward the door. 

“Get back to work,” Alex snaps over his shoulder as he opens the door and pulls George outside, relishing the feeling of the cool air in the hallway. 

George just jerks his arm away and kicks a wooden chair sitting outside the door. The legs screech as it slides over the tiled floor. “Jesus fucking Christ!” George shouts. “I would love to beat the everliving _shit_ out of him.” Alex ushers George down the hallway, trying to get him out of earshot of the Sit Room. The last thing they need is a bunch of gossiping State Department aides. 

“What happened?” Alex asks as George growls in frustration and starts to angrily pace back and forth. 

“He told me that it didn’t look like we were working very hard, insinuated that I didn’t care about his country. What the fuck does he think I’ve been doing all morning?!” George asks, spittle flying from his mouth. 

Alex nods and slowly walks up to George before grabbing his shoulders and squeezing down hard. “Okay, George, take a breath for me,” Alex says. “You need to calm down.”

George’s eyes are still flashing and he’s panting, his chest heaving, but he does relax a little when Alex starts to rub his shoulders with the pads of his thumbs. “Just relax,” Alex murmurs. 

“Sorry,” George says gruffly. “I lost my temper.”

Alex nods and pulls George into a hug. “It’s okay. Everyone is a little frazzled right now.” 

“That was unprofessional,” George mutters. “I just got so _mad_. I mean, we’ve all been working our asses off to get aid to this guy’s country, and he has the nerve to sit on the phone and insult me?” George shakes his head. “Who does that?”

“Shh,” Alex shushes him. “Just move past it and keep working. Those people—” Alex can feel himself getting choked up and he has to pause and take a breath. “Those people need our help,” he finally says, his voice shaky. 

George frowns and cups Alex’s face. His hands are shaking.

“Are you okay, Alex?” 

Alex plasters on his best smile and nods. “Yeah. Just tired. C’mon, we need to get back in there. We have to decide if we want to send in air support.” 

“Okay,” George says slowly, obviously worried. “If you’re sure…” Alex rolls his eyes and leans forward to kiss George. 

“I’m fine, George. I promise.” 

George still doesn’t look convinced, but he lets Alex lead him back to the Sit Room. 

Alex takes a quick look at the T.V. and shudders when he sees a group of novice monks in crimson tunics, all of them fresh-faced boys not yet teens. They’re standing on a stretch of pale beach, the outgoing tide lapping at their sandal-clad feet. Alex wonders if they thought the sea was too beautiful to hurt them. 

He’s sorry they had to found out that it’s not. 

\---

Alex has to cancel an appearance at a local school around midday, which makes him feel sadder than it should. He was supposed to read to some kids and talk about the importance of being nice to each other. All part of the new anti-bullying initiative that Alex and George are starting. Very First Gentlemanly. 

It’s not that Alex likes kids, in fact he kind of hates them, but it’s always nice to take some time out of the day and do something that has absolutely nothing to do with life-and-death world affairs. 

But natural disaster trumps sad bullied children, so Alex goes to his office and makes the call.

The woman who answers the phone sounds so happy that Alex catches himself feeling jealous. What would it be like to have a job where thousands of displaced people’s lives don’t rest on your shoulders? 

“Hi, um, this is Alex Hamilton,” Alex says once the woman introduces herself as Cathy.

The woman—Cathy—makes a confused humming sound and Alex sighs. “I’m supposed to come read and talk about bullying today,” he supplies. 

“Oh of course! From the White House. Sorry, don’t know how I could forget. The kids are very excited to meet you.”

Alex frowns and rubs the back of his neck. “That’s great to hear, but, uh, I need to reschedule. The tsunami in Ceylon is taking priority today.”

“Ah, that’s too bad to hear. Who should I contact to set up a new time for you to come?”

“The president’s secretary, Betsy. I can give you her number, if you want.” 

Alex can hear papers rustling in the background and Cathy makes a quiet ‘ah-ha’ sound. 

“Right, I’ve already got the number here. Thank you Mr. Hamilton. We’ll be looking forward to seeing you soon.”

“Thanks. Tell the kids sorry for me,” Alex says a little awkwardly before hanging up and heaving a sigh. Today absolutely sucks. 

He’s been trying to keep it together, focus on something other than the devastation on the T.V. screen, but it’s getting harder and harder to detach himself. 

It’s never been a problem for him, keeping his past and present separated, shuffled into separate parts of his brain. It’s a skill he’s always prided himself on. The ability to compartmentalize. 

But this one hits just a little too close to home. 

“Fuck this,” Alex says to his empty office, leaning back in his chair and rubbing his eyes. He’s absolutely exhausted but doesn’t know if he can physically handle any more coffee. One more cup and he’s either going to vomit or vibrate right out of his skin. 

He sits back up and looks at the notes from George he keeps on his desk. He can usually read them a few times to cheer himself up.

_You look beautiful today!! —G_

_Hope you’re having a great day, sweetheart —G_

_I love you —G_

Alex catches himself smiling, but the feeling is short lived because his phone starts ringing, Lafayette’s name popping up. He has the foreboding feeling that he’s not going to like what Laf has to say. 

“Hey Laf, what’s up?”

“We need you back down here,” he says.

“What happened?” Alex asks as he stands up and starts walking, distractedly nodding at staffers and interns as he goes. 

“There was a temple full of worshippers at a Buddhist ceremony, _lots_ of little kids, and—”

“Jesus Christ,” Alex mutters, not needing Lafayette to finish the sentence. “Are they all dead?”

“So far?” Lafayette says gravely. “Yes.” 

“Alright, I’m on my way.”

Alex shoves his phone in his pocket and starts jogging to the Sit Room, trying to ignore the flash of heat that hits him and makes sweat pop up on the back of his neck. 

When he gets into the Sit Room, everyone has their eyes on the T.V. as Anderson carefully walks through the ruins, pointing out small, plastic cups and children’s school books that line the perimeter of what used to be the temple.. The only thing left is its foundation—a slab of concrete. Everything else? Thousands of years of tradition? Gone. 

It’s all gone. 

The children? All gone. 

The temple used to be facing the sea. Maybe if there’d been windows, some of the people inside could’ve escaped. But there were no windows and now everyone is dead, crushed by the sea. 

Alex’s stomach churns and he has to sit down and take a deep breath. George is sitting in his seat staring straight ahead, a mournful, wounded look on his face. 

Anderson reports that almost 70 people were inside. 

30 of them were children. 

The death toll keeps rising. 

Finally the Marines get there and start helping the search and rescue effort. Evacuation centers for displaced refuges are set up. These people lost everything, their lives swooped up and taken by the tide. 

The sea is most definitely not the Ceylonians’ friend. 

“I need to make a statement,” George says, breaking the silence. “I’ve been waiting for American aid to get there. Now’s the time to make it. Edmund? I’d like us to make a joint statement if that’s okay?”

Randolph nods. “Of course, Sir.”

“Herc, I need you to work with Randolph’s comm. team and write us something up. I need it within the hour.”

Hercules nods and stands. “We’ll work as fast as we can, Sir,” he says on his way out, Randolph’s speechwriter hot on his heels. 

“Toby?” George says. “Go make a brief statement to the press from the podium. I don’t care what you say, just say something. We’re working on it, American aid is there, we’re cooperating and working with other world powers—that kind of stuff.”

Toby nods grimly and leaves, his eyebrows drawn. 

Alex watches all of this through a hazy film. He feels numb, like he isn’t all there. Part of him is sitting in the Sit Room, but another part of him is in Nevis, once again just a little boy carefully walking through dirty streets flanked by piles of rotting bodies and rubble. 

If he closes his eyes, the Alex sitting in the Sit Room floats away and all that’s left is the little boy, golden brown from the sun with long, lank hair that hangs in his face. A mangy dog trots beside him, nose low to the muddy ground. Alex’s mother is somewhere behind him calling his name, yelling for him to stay beside her, but he just keeps walking, mesmerized by the sheer _power_ of the storm. It’s almost unfathomable that one day an entire city can be here and the next day it can be gone. 

Alex shivers as a gust of death-scented wind ruffles his hair. 

Behind him his mother keeps shouting but he doesn’t stop—

“Alex?” 

George is standing over him, thick eyebrows knitted in concern. “We’re taking a lunch break. You should come back to the Residence with me.”

Alex blinks back the double vision, pushing the little boy with the mangy dog to the back of his mind. 

Compartmentalize. That’s all he has to do. 

“Sorry. I zoned out there for a second,” he says smoothly as he accepts George’s offered hand. 

They walk in silence back to the Residence, and Alex is grateful when George leads them to the bedroom rather than the dining room. Alex doesn’t know if he could eat anything right now. 

They both collapse down on the bed, and George wraps his arms around Alex, squeezing him tightly. 

“Are you okay?” he asks softly. 

“Yeah. Are you?” 

“I don’t know,” George says honestly. 

_Since when is George the honest one when it comes to his feelings?_

Alex sighs and rolls over to face George. His eyes are glassy with unshed tears, and Alex starts to stroke his side. 

“Oh George,” he murmurs. “It’s okay.”

_It’s not okay, but a little white lie never hurt anyone, right?_

“It doesn’t feel okay,” George says hoarsely. “It feels awful. All those kids, Alex—” George sucks in a deep breath and Alex is hit with another wave of heat and his stomach drops. 

“I don’t want to talk about it,” Alex says quickly, the words spilling out of his mouth before he can think about. George frowns and tugs Alex closer to him, rubbing their noses together. 

“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to upset you.” 

Alex bites his lip and tries to blink back the tears pressing on his eyes. 

“It’s okay,” he says shakily, because apparently that’s all he can manage to say anymore. He lets out an embarrassing whimper and tries to roll over so George won’t see him cry, but George’s arm locks around him to hold him in place. 

“Alexander, love, it’s okay if you need to cry,” he whispers, his breath hot against Alex’s cheek. 

Alex shakes his head and starts to protest even as he feels his cheeks heating up. He tries to take a breath but ends up sobbing, his whole body jerking with the force of it. He’s always been an ugly crier.

“I’m sorry,” he sobs, his breath hitching painfully. “It’s just the hurricane; I can’t stop thinking about it. It destroyed everything. I almost _died.”_ His voice is thick and hard to understand, but George nods his head, encouraging Alex with his eyes. 

Alex sobs again and bunches George’s shirt up in his fists as he clings to him. “I know how these people feel, and I was trying—I thought I could keep it all separate in my head but I _can’t_. I know how these people feel and it’s just so awful, George. It’s so fucking awful.” 

“I know sweetheart,” George whispers as he pets Alex’s hair. “I know. I’m so sorry.”

Alex hiccups and sobs again. “I tried to distract myself, but it’s all too much. All those kids—” He sucks in a ragged breath and whimpers. “That was almost me. That could’ve been me and God, George, I know what it’s like to lose everything and it’s horrible. Those people have nothing left. We have to help them. We can’t ever give up on them because they need us. They have _nothing._ ”

George just makes sweet comforting noises and rubs Alex’s back.

He cries for what feels like forever. At some point George’s phone rings but he ignores it, keeping his hands on Alex, playing with his hair and stroking his side. 

When he finally calms down, George gets him a warm washcloth and helps him clean his face.

“Sorry for freaking out,” Alex mutters, staring at his lap. “I really—I tried to keep it under control, but it just got to be too much.”

“Do you want to take the day off?” George whispers. “If it’s too much for you, then you don’t have to do this.”

Alex quickly shakes his head. “No, no. I can do it. I’ll be alright. I think I just needed a good cry about it.”

George smiles and kisses Alex gently, sighing into his mouth. “I love you so much, Alex. We’re going to help these people, okay? We won’t forget about them or push them under the rug. I promise. I won’t let other issues distract me.”

Alex nods and cups George’s face, his chest tight as he’s hit with just how much he loves George Washington. “This is what makes you such a good president, George,” he whispers, his voice a little shaky again. “You are such a god damn good president.”

George opens his mouth to protest but Alex shakes his head and holds his hand up. “No, I’m serious. You might not think so, but you’re _good_ , George. A good person, a good leader.” Alex sniffs and throws his arms around George’s neck. “I love you so much.”

“I love you too,” George says sheepishly, ducking his head. “But we should probably get back downstairs. I’ve got a few briefings and meetings in the Oval, and then I’m going back down to the Sit Room.”

Alex nods and follows George out of the bedroom, lacing their fingers. “Lets go save some lives,” he says, his voice steady.

The little boy in his head walking through the piles of rubble with a mangy dog at his side looks out at the place where the sea meets the sky and he isn’t afraid. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For Alex's life timeline, since I haven't really gone into it in this story, is that he grew up in Nevis w/ his mom and brother (dad obvs left when he was a kid). After the hurricane, he and his mom went to New York in search of a better life (his brother decided to stay in Nevis). His mom got sick and died about a year after they moved to New York, so at age 13 Alex got put into the foster care system and then got his scholarship and went to Columbia. So all the regular life events, but in a slightly different order. 
> 
> Anderson Cooper (MY BOY, literally my absolute fave journalist) went to Sri Lanka in 2004 and reported on the tsunami, and there was a temple where children died and left little tiny plastic cups and yeah. Sad stuff. Took those details from his book "Dispatches from the Edge" (my fave book ever), so shoutout to Coops for that.
> 
> Anyway, no idea where this story is headed next (wish I had enough discipline to actually PLAN THINGS like a normal writer), but I can assure you that it will be angsty and there will probably be more crying b/c I mean, c'mon guys, it's me. If George doesn't cry at least twice then did I really write it? 
> 
> As always, I love y'all's comments :')


	3. Competing with a Ghost

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Was feeling burned out on this series (low key again), but I pushed through it lmao. 
> 
> I leave for D.C. in a week and most likely won't be writing/positing much anymore until around the end of the August.

Sometimes it feels like Alex is competing with a ghost. 

Alex will mention something that reminds George of Martha and catch the way his eyes glaze over and droop closed. His shoulders will slump, he’ll pull in a shaky breath, and his jaw will tighten. It’s always the same. 

Then it passes and he’ll perk back up and keep on going with the conversation. 

Early on in their relationship, back when they were still ‘friends,’ Alex researched Martha. He spent an embarrassing amount of time holed up in his room scouring the web for information about her. After that first failed attempt with George—the disastrous kiss in his townhouse—he immediately went home and curled up with his laptop, eyes glued to the screen for hours. He’d been flirting with George pretty hard from the moment he met him, figured he was setting himself up to at least get some sex out of the guy, but after he freaked out about Martha, Alex realized that doing _anything_ with George Washington was going to be hard. 

When he first searched Martha, he found tons of articles about her cancer diagnosis. He watched George’s press conference about a million times, listening to the way his voice shook and his eyes flooded with tears. He saw the way beautiful, perfect Martha Washington walked up afterward and pulled him into a hug. Strong and loving all the way to the end.

Then he found articles and pictures from George’s gubernatorial campaign. They made quite the pair: Beautiful, young, passionate. She was shorter than him but her tall heels—which she elegantly walked around in—brought her more up to his level. She looked beautiful in an effortless way, like she would look damn good even without makeup, which she didn’t seem to wear very much of anyway.

He found her old LinkedIn and scrolled through it, mouth hanging open. Double major in biomedical engineering and human biology with a minor in bioethics. Several published articles on the ethics of designer babies, the importance and practical application of Stem cell research, and the new ways to use tissue engineering. When she died, she was a research assistant on a project working on creating artificial hearts and lungs.

The deeper Alex went, the more he found. He eventually stumbled upon pictures from their wedding that were featured in the archives of some Richmond newspaper. Apparently being a Washington in Virginia really was a big deal. They were both so young, and Alex kept staring at the pictures, marveling at how fucking adorable George was. He was all long limbs and lean muscle, and his curly hair was thicker and longer, giving him a boyish look. His smile was radiant, and Alex realized with a pang that he’d never seen George look so happy. 

After his obsessive stalking, Alex vowed not to do it again. He wouldn’t get hung up on Martha, because he realized that she would beat him every time. A part of George’s heart will always belong to Martha Washington, and that’s okay. 

Except some days it doesn’t feel okay because it’s been 10 years, and Alex has never lost a spouse, but shouldn’t George be over it by now? 

It’s a thought he never voices aloud, never lets leave his subconscious, because it would hurt George in ways that Alex can only imagine. Maybe you never get over losing a spouse. Alex hopes that he never has to find out. 

So Alex tries to cut George some slack and not get annoyed when his eyes get sad whenever they discuss the wedding, but sometimes it hurts because Alex has the nagging thought that maybe George doesn’t really want to get married and Alex is just trapped in some elaborate joke where he’s the punchline and doesn’t know it. 

\---

The dining room is quiet aside from the clinking of silverware and the occasional fluttering of paper as George flips through a briefing. Alex is busy scrolling through a list of color palettes that Maria sent him last night. They’ve been exchanging emails back-and-forth trying to decide on colors. They can’t move forward with any of the other plans without a color scheme in place. Alex scrolls down, stopping when he reaches a monotone blue palette that catches his eye.

“Hey, I like this one a lot,” Alex says around his mouthful of scrambled eggs. “How does silver, navy, royal blue, and this light blue called ‘dusk’ sound?”

George looks up and sets down the knife he was using to butter a piece of toast. “What’s it look like?” 

Alex slides his iPad over for George to see, trying not to look too interested in watching George’s response. 

After looking at it for a few seconds, he shrugs noncommittally and slides the iPad back over. “It’s nice,” he says before taking a small bite of toast. Alex bristles. 

“It’s nice?” he asks, raising his eyebrows. “Is that really your only input?” George picks up his napkin, refolds it, and sets it back down on the table.

“I mean, I don’t really know much about color schemes. If you’re happy then I’m happy.” 

Alex suddenly slams his fork down on the table, rattling the dishes and sloshing some of his coffee onto the white tablecloth. George startles and looks up from his briefing. 

“Do you even want to get married?” Alex snaps. “Because you sure as hell aren’t acting like it!” 

George swallows, his Adam’s apple bobbing in his throat, and sets down the thick booklet beside his elbow. “Of course I want to get married,” he says quietly, an almost imperceptible tremor in his voice. “It’s just… There are some things I’m trying to work through in my head, okay?”

Alex narrows his eyes, trying to push down the sudden wave of guilt. He shouldn’t feel guilty about this.“That’s fine,” he finally says. “But you’re hurting my feelings, George.”

George’s eyes widen and he grimaces. “I’m so sorry, Alex.” His eyes slide shut and he drops his head into his hands. “Fuck.” 

A heavy tension settles in the air around them, thick like a summer fog, and Alex nervously shifts his weight. George finally raises his headed and takes a deep breath. “It’s hard to separate it in my head,” he says cryptically. Alex gives him a blank look and he heaves a sigh. “The two weddings,” he explains. “I keep dreaming about Martha and my first wedding.” 

Alex winces. “I’m sorry,” he says lamely, not knowing what the fuck he’s supposed to say to that. 

“It’s not your fault,” George sighs. He chuckles darkly and shakes his head. “I really am excited to marry you. I promise. It’s just a little weird. And it’s right before the ten year anniversary of her death, you know?” George shrugs helplessly and absently toys with his knife, picking it up and putting it back down again. 

“Well, can you at least try to show a little more enthusiasm for the wedding plans?” Alex asks softly. “Because I know I said that I wanted to take care of the planning because I like to plan and organize things, but this is your wedding too. I want your ideas reflected in there too. Don’t just sign off on something because I like it. If you fucking hate the color ‘dusk blue,’ whatever that is, then tell me.” 

George cracks a smile at that and nods. “I will. Though, I do really like that color scheme. I think it’s nice.”

Alex smiles and reaches over to squeezes George’s hand. “Good. See? That wasn’t that hard, was it?” he teases. 

“I guess not,” George says, his eyes crinkling as his smile deepens.

Just then, Lafayette shoves into the room, his chest heaving like he’s been running. “Sir,” he pants. “We need you in the Sit Room.”

George and Alex stand at the same time, chairs scraping over the wood floor. “What’s wrong?” George asks as they all start walking toward the West Wing. 

“Doctors from the World Health Organization just announced that there’s been a Cholera outbreak on Ceylon.”

“Fuck,” Alex mutters. 

“Exactly what I said,” Lafayette says gravely. They hustle down to the Sit Room, and everyone clambers to their feet when George walks in. He quickly waves them down and stands at the head of the table, crossing his arms across his chest. 

Standing there watching George, Alex is hit with a ridiculous wave of lust, his cock twitching in his pants. George just looks so _powerful_ standing there in his well-tailored, navy suit. The way he’s crossing his arms make his biceps bulge out a little and Alex has to lick his lips several times as his mouth goes dry. 

_Chill the fuck out, boner._

“What’s going on?” George asks, breaking Alex out of his thoughts. Randolph jumps up and rubs the back of his neck. He looks like he hasn’t slept in days. They all do. 

“Sir, the World Health Organization is declaring a Cholera outbreak on Ceylon. They’re trying to isolate the sick from everyone else, but, well, the refugee camps aren’t exactly that organized and the make-shift medical tents are hard to divide up. Basically, an actual, effective quarantine isn’t feasible.”

“God dammit,” George mutters. He runs a hand over his face, rubbing his eyes with his fingertips. “Are aid workers getting sick too? Have you heard anything from the Marines?”

Randolph’s jaw tightens and he nods. “Aid workers are coming down with it too, especially the search and rescue guys. I mean, they’re wading through the water all day. We should’ve seen this coming.”

“And we have _no way_ of setting up quarantines?” George asks exasperatedly. 

“They’re trying, Sir, but it’s impossible to gather up everyone who’s infected. Everyone is so spread out, and not everyone has been evacuated out of the rubble yet. There are people still trapped out there who may be infected.” 

“We need to send in more supplies. Stuff to treat dehydration,” George says, fingers nervously drumming on the table. “I want to set up an airlift. General Lincoln, can we make that happen?” 

General Benjamin Lincoln, Chief of Staff of the Air Force, stands abruptly, his medals clinking on his chest. 

“Yes Sir,” he says, nodding. 

“How long would it take to coordinate and mobilize the airlift?”

Lincoln shifts his weight and rubs his chin. “I’d say we could have planes in the air by tomorrow, Sir.”

“Alright, get it done. Focus on standard medical treatment for dehydration and clean drinking water.”

“Got it, Sir,” Lincoln says before striding out of the room, boots clicking on the floor as he goes. George takes a big breath in and out and pinches the bridge of his nose. 

“Thank you everyone. I have a busy schedule today, but I want periodic updates brought to the Oval.” 

Everyone hauls themselves to their feet again as George leaves. Lafayette, Alex, and Angelica bustle out after him, practically jogging to keep up. 

“George,” Alex snaps when he catches up to him. “Slow the fuck down. We’re not running a marathon here.”

George keeps walking but does slow his pace. “Sorry,” he says. “I’m a little worked up right now.” He shoves his hands into his pockets, jingling some change with his fingers.

“It’s okay,” Alex murmurs. “Just take a deep breath.”

George does as he’s told, breathing out in a loud huff, and Alex nods approvingly. “It’s all going to be okay. The airlift is a good idea.”

“Thanks,” George says absently as they step into the Oval. 

George rattles off some instructions, asks Lafayette to go to the Hill and meet with Jefferson and Madison about the mental health legislation they’re going to start drafting together. He tells Alex and Angelica to prepare a briefing for his meeting with Israeli President Netanyahu. 

Alex leans over for a quick kiss before following Angelica into the Roosevelt Room where they’ll have space to spread out their materials and work together. For a while they work in companionable silence, Alex eventually turning some music on to liven things up a bit.

After a solid two hours, Alex sits back in his chair and stretches his arms over his head, grunting when his shoulders crack. “You wanna grab dinner tonight?” he asks. Angelica looks up from a document she’s highlighting, her mouth popping open. 

“Why?” she asks. Alex frowns and shifts his weight. 

“Why not? I know you won’t admit it, but we’re friends. Friends get dinner together.” 

Angelica caps her highlighter and purses her lips. “Does this have anything to do with your impending wedding?” 

Alex withers under her keen gaze and he nods, flashing a sheepish smile. “I need someone to talk it out with. George is being…” He waves his hand vaguely in the air and shrugs. “George is being George.”

“Of course we can get dinner. I was supposed to go out with Daniel tonight, but he won’t mind if I reschedule.”

“Daniel?” Alex frowns, fiddling with his pen. Angelica rolls her eyes and uncaps her highlighter. 

“My boyfriend.”

“Shit. Right,” Alex says guiltily, dropping his eyes back to the papers in front of him. “Sorry…” 

_He’s a forgettable guy_ , Alex finishes in his head. 

Angelica just shrugs and goes back to reading. “It’s fine. I don’t mention him much,” she says, her tone blasé. 

“So tonight?” Alex prompts. “We’re still on?”

“Yeah, why not?”

\---

“So when you say that George is being George,” Angelica says as she dips a mozzarella stick into a plastic cup of marinara sauce, “you mean he’s being all weird and pouty, right?” 

Alex laughs and pushes his lime through the mouth of his bottle of Corona. “Yes, exactly.” 

“I figured.” Angelica takes a bite of the mozzarella stick and washes it down with her own beer—Heineken. “Is it Martha?” 

“Isn’t it always?” Alex asks, wincing once the words are out of his mouth. He’s already on his fourth beer and he’s always been a bit of a light weight. Alcohol makes him loose, chatty. Angelica purses her lips and absently rubs her thumb over the mouth of her beer. 

“Have you talked to him about it?” 

Alex shoves several french fries in his mouth and nods, licking the grease off his fingers. “Yeah. We talked this morning at breakfast. He said that he needed to work some stuff out on his own, whatever the fuck that means.” 

Across the restaurant—a little sports bar frequented by politicians and lobbyists—a group of men assembled around a T.V. cheer. It looks like they’re watching basketball. Stephen Curry just shot a three at the buzzer. Alex turns his attention back to Angelica and heaves a sigh. “I guess I should just let him… work it out.”

She waves down a waitress after giving Alex a rueful smile. She orders them a margarita pitcher, ignoring Alex’s incredulous look. “You know we have work tomorrow,” he says as soon as the waitress leaves with their order. 

“You don’t have to drink it,” she says, smirking. Alex rolls his eyes and finishes his Corona, sitting back in his chair as the beer settles warm in his stomach. 

“Enough about me and George. You should tell me more about Daniel.” 

Angelica shrugs, fiddling with one of the bracelets jangling on her wrists. “He’s a nice guy.”

“That’s it?” Alex chuckles, pouring himself a glass of the margarita after the waitress drops it off. Angelica takes the pitcher and pours herself a drink. 

“I mean, what am I supposed to say? He’s very handsome, nice, good manners.”

“He’s not a Republican is he?” Alex jokes, mouth popping open when Angelica smiles sheepishly. “Jesus Christ, you’re dating a Republican?” Alex shakes his head. “Interesting.”

Angelica shrugs and stirs a straw in her margarita. “We don’t really talk politics. He works for an investment firm, so he’s not really into the whole D.C. thing.”

“Damn. I can’t imagine _not_ talking about politics with my boyfriend.” 

“Well yeah. You’re engaged to the president, Alex,” Angelica deadpans. 

Alex snickers and tips back more of the margarita. It’s sweet like strawberry candy and goes down easy. “As long as your happy, then I’m happy for you.”

Angelica smiles, obviously flattered. “Thanks Alex. That means a lot.” 

“Perfect. Now that I’ve buttered you up with my smooth compliments. Can I ask you something?” Alex refills his glass, blinking when the restaurant tilts and spins. Angelica arches an eyebrow, looking askance. 

“I suppose so,” she says with mock weariness. Her lips are stained red from the margarita when she smiles. 

“Would you be in the wedding? As my, well, I guess you can be my Best Woman.” Alex grins and Angelica ducks her head, her cheeks burning pink. 

“Alex of course. I would love to,” she says. “Thank you.” 

“No problem. We’re friends, you know.” Alex smirks at Angelica’s eye roll before he puts his napkin on the table and slides his chair back. “I’ve gotta go to the bathroom. I’ll be right back.” He takes another sip of the margarita before standing up. The entire room tilts dangerously as soon as he does, and he accidentally checks the table with his hip, clattering the dishes. Angelica frowns and reaches out to steady him. 

“Are you drunk?” 

“Maybe a little bit,” Alex says sheepishly. “I’m a major lightweight.” 

“Obviously,” Angelica mutters. “I think it’s time to get you back to the White House. I’m going to get Trumbull.”

John Trumbull is the head of Alex’s new personal detail. He’s a nice guy, handsome with dark eyebrows, intense brown eyes, and high cheekbones. Alex likes him well enough, and he seems to be good friends with Tilghman from George’s detail. 

Alex slowly stumbles to the bathroom, inconspicuously followed in by Richard Meade, another member of his detail. Alex glances over at him where he’s standing against the wall, glancing warily at a guy at the opposite end of the line of urinals. Alex rolls his eyes. 

“Do you really have to follow me into the bathroom, Meade?” 

He grins a boyish smile and shrugs. “Sorry, Sir. Just doing my job.” 

Alex sways as he zips back up and clumsily washes his hands. When he leaves, Trumbull is waiting for him. He puts a steadying hand on Alex’s arm. 

“The car is waiting outside, Sir,” he murmurs. Angelica is already gone, so Alex lets them usher him out. He leans his forehead against the cool car window once he gets inside and closes his eyes against the steady spinning of the world around him. He is _such_ a lightweight. He should’ve eaten more at dinner to balance it out. 

When they get back to the White House, Alex shrugs off Trumbull’s hands and grumbles that he can get to his bedroom without any help. 

George is already in bed when Alex shoves the door open, sitting up reading a brief with his glasses perched on his nose. He frowns when Alex teeters in, bumping into the chair in the corner. 

“Alex are you drunk?” he asks. Alex grunts and waves him away as he struggles out of his suit, leaving it in a puddle on the floor. 

“Kind of,” he says as he collapses down on the bed and fights off a wave of nausea. 

George shifts in the bed and puts a gentle hand on the small of Alex’s back. “Are you okay?”

“Feeling kind of sick, but it’ll pass,” he says, his voice muffled by the pillow. 

“Okay,” George says uncertainly. “Do you want me to turn this light out so you can get some sleep?”

“No, no. It’s alright. Keep working,” Alex slurs. George chuckles above him. 

“Can you let me help you under the covers? You’re on top of the blankets.” Alex groans and manages to haul himself out of the bed, grabbing ahold of the bedside table to keep himself standing. His stomach roils and he groans, eagerly climbing back into bed once George flips the covers back. 

“I love you,” Alex slurs. Papers rustle as George picks his briefing back up. 

“I love you too, sweetheart. See you in the morning.” 

\---

Alex regrets waking up as soon as he does, wishing he could smash George’s alarm clock with a hammer. Fuck being engaged to the president who has to wake up at 5:45 in the morning. 

Moving is painful and as soon as Alex sits up his stomach lurches. He shudders and breathes through it, ignoring George’s smug smirk. 

“Feeling okay, sweetheart?” he asks innocently. Alex glares at him.

“Oh fuck off, George,” he mutters. 

George just laughs and goes into the bathroom. He brings Alex some Advil and a glass of water. “You can sleep in this morning if you need to,” he murmurs. 

Alex gratefully flops back down on the bed. Okay, so being engaged to the president isn’t _that_ bad. 

\---

Alex finally drags his ass down to work at 9:30. Pretty acceptable, in his opinion. Angelica has a huge smirk on her face, and Alex glares at her. 

“I hate you,” he mutters as they pass each other in the hallway. She grins and pats him on the back. 

“Love you too, Ham!” 

He somehow manages to get a good bit of work done despite the pounding pain in his head, and he startles when there’s a knock on his door. 

“Come in!”

Lafayette sticks his head in. “Sit Room,” he says shortly before ducking back out. Alex hauls his ass up and hurries after him, sighing. 

George is already standing at the head of the table when Alex walks in. They share a brief smile before George turns to General Lincoln expectantly. “Tell me you’ve got good news, General.”

Lincoln nods. “The airlift is a success so far, Sir. We just flew through our first delivery.”

“I’ve been in contact with the head of the Indian Navy medical team and they said the supplies arrived safely,” Randolph interjects. “They’re already distributing the supplies to the makeshift hospitals and refugee camps. Hopefully we can contain this or at least start to combat it before it can kill too many more people.” 

“Do we know what the death toll is?” George asks. Randolph drops his eyes and nods. 

“We’re up to 17,895, Sir.”

“Fuck,” George breathes. Alex’s stomach drops and he takes a deep breath. Almost 19,000 people are gone, swallowed up by the sea. The lives they were living completely gone, erased. It’s so fucking unfair. So _random_. That’s one thing Alex has always hated about weather. It’s unpredictable and unstable. 

The weather is one of the very few things that humans can’t control. Alex doesn’t like things that can’t be controlled. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I just started another Whamilton fic in a new verse b/c I suck, but I'm going to try to not let it distract me from this verse!
> 
> Comments are always appreciated :-)


	4. An Unfair Fight

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry I haven't updated this in a while! I low key got distracted with my other fic I'm writing, which I told myself I wouldn't do, but oh well. 
> 
> I'm going to D.C. for an internship, so I probably won't be updating this again for a while. I may find some time to write, but I'll just have to see. 
> 
> Don't love this chapter, but I needed to finish this fic so here it is.

One month later

“It’s really almost here. Two weeks. Pretty crazy, huh?” 

George looks at the headstone like he expects it to respond. As if he’s just waiting for Martha to walk up and hug him—pick right back up where they left of. They were planning on seeing the movie _Lincoln_ that was released the weekend she died. George had tickets and everything. 

Then she was dead and he threw the tickets away. 

He still hasn’t seen the movie. Doesn’t really want to. 

George laughs and traces the curly letters of Martha’s name on the headstone, swallowing the lump in his throat. He’s not going to cry. He’s tired of crying over her. 

“I’m sorry for moving on,” he whispers. “But I couldn’t be alone forever, you know? And Alex is amazing. You would love him, Martha.” 

He tries to imagine what Martha would say, but he doesn’t remember how her voice sounded when she spoke to him anymore. There are videos of her talking, but it’s not the same. He doesn’t remember the quiet voice she saved just for him.

He doesn’t remember the sound she made walking through the door, the particular scrape of her feet across the floor. 

He doesn’t remember the way her lips felt against his. 

The images? They’re all there. He can picture her kissing him. He can see her walking through the door after a long day at work. 

But the sounds? They’re gone. Martha is reduced to visual memories. It’s not enough, never enough. 

He tries to remind himself that Alex is alive and warm beside him, but deep down inside he still misses Martha. Still craves the days when they were young and stupid and in love. When life seemed to stretch on like an ocean in front of them. 

But she’s gone and George is getting remarried in two weeks. 

In two weeks, Alex and he will stand out in the yard with the Potomac sparkling behind them and bind themselves together. They’ll wear matching blue ties and exchange rings; they’ll get wine drunk and eat cake and dance all night; and despite it all, George will still miss Martha, and it will still hurt like a gaping wound in his chest. 

It’s unfair. Disgusting. Pathetic. 

He has Alex and that should be enough. 

So George presses a kiss to Martha’s headstone and stands up slowly, briefly leaning over to pat Lawrence’s headstone before he walks back to the house. They’re at Mt. Vernon for the day because Alex and Maria are planning how they want everything to be set up. They’re probably still out in the backyard right now. He turns his head and sees Tallmadge behind him and he smiles. 

“Sorry to have to drag you guys all the way out here on such a hot day,” George says. Tallmadge waves his hand dismissively. 

“It’s our job, Sir. Don’t worry about it.” 

George nods and rubs the back of his neck. “Look, Tallmadge, when we get back to the house I’d like to talk to you about something, if that’s okay?” Tallmadge frowns and absently reaches up to fiddle with a strand of his coiffed hair that’s fallen out of place. 

“Of course, Sir.” 

When they get back inside, George motions for Tallmadge to follow him into the kitchen where he pours them each a glass of water. Tallmadge shifts his weight and takes a sip of his water. “Is something wrong, Sir?” he asks, pitching his voice low. George pats Tallmadge on the back and shakes his head. 

“No, no. Sorry, I didn’t mean to startle you. I just, well, if I requested that you be off duty on the day of the wedding—” George takes a nervous sip of his water and looks at a point on the wall past Tallmadge’s head. “Would you want to be in the wedding? As a groomsman? You could bring Caleb as your guest. I’d love to meet him.” 

Tallmadge is quiet for a few seconds before he puts a warm hand on George’s shoulder and squeezes it. “It would be an honor, Sir. Thank you.” Tallmadge chuckles and sets his empty glass in the sink. “I’ll have to make sure Caleb behaves. He can be a bit… over enthusiastic. A little like Alex, actually. I think they’d get along well.” 

George smiles and shakes hands with Tallmadge. “Thank you Tallmadge. It means a lot to me that you’re in the wedding. You kept our secret and have always been there for me.” 

“Thank you, Sir,” Tallmadge says quietly, his voice thick. “I should get back to my post.” George nods and watches Tallmadge go. 

“Hey George!” 

George turns as Alex romps into the kitchen, Maria fast on his heels. She has a huge binder stuffed full of paper in her arms. 

“Hey Alex!” George echoes teasingly, grabbing Alex’s hand and tugging him into a hug. “Did you get everything figured out?”

“Yes, and it’s going to be beautiful,” Alex says excitedly. “I can’t wait, George.” Alex raises up on his toes and presses a sweet kiss to the corner of George’s mouth. 

“I can’t wait either,” George says. 

“Did you go to the graveyard?” Alex asks softly, his breath tickling George’s neck. George swallows and nods, sighing as Alex soothingly runs his hand up and down George’s side. Out of the corner of his eye, he sees Maria retreat into one of living rooms, sensing that this is a private moment not meant for her. 

“I spent some time with Martha.” 

“Are you okay?” Alex reaches up to cup the back of George’s neck, squeezing it gently. 

“Yeah,” George breathes. 

Except he’s not okay, not completely, but it’s something he has to work out on his own. Alex can’t help him with this. Not anymore. It’s not fair. 

George looks down at Alex, and, in this moment, he reminds him of Martha. His warm, chocolatey brown eyes are so similar to Martha’s own that it’s almost eery. George looks away so he doesn’t have to stare into the eyes of a ghost anymore. 

As they head toward the motorcade, George reminds himself of what he knows. 

Martha is dead. Alex is here. He is getting remarried in two weeks. 

\---

The Oval Office is a little chilly, and George absently reminds himself to ask Betsy to turn up the temperature after his meeting is over. 

“Personally, Mr. President,” Jefferson says, causing George to refocus on him. “I think we need to address the opioid epidemic inside any mental health legislation we pass. It should be easy enough to work them into a single bill.” Jefferson glances at Senator Stephen Rensselaer and Congressman Gouverneur Morris, the Senate Majority Leader and Speaker of the House, to gauge their reactions.

Morris nods and smiles. “I completely agree, Senator. Actually me and Congressman Hancock were discussing this the other day. We’re leaning toward funding some sort of rehabilitation program that can be implemented in hospitals.”

“It would be covered under Medicaid, Medicare, and FranklinCare, of course,” Rensselaer cuts in. 

“But we’d have to find a way to incentivize health insurers to cover it,” Madison finishes for him. 

George sits back and listens as the four men discuss, letting them do most of the brainstorming, though he does step in every once in a while to keep things on track. So far, the meeting has been pleasantly civil and amicable. Alex is sitting on the couch next to him, close but not quite touching, and they share a small, private smile. 

“You know,” Rensselaer says. “It might also be smart to look at getting a comprehensive rehabilitation program put in place in prisons. We just throw addicts caught with the drugs in there and leave them to suffer. That’s not exactly humane.”

Morris nods enthusiastically and looks at Madison and Jefferson. “We could maybe see about doing that at a state level too. I’m sure your Republican colleagues would be willing to support it if the state had more control over it.”

Madison and Jefferson both smile, clearly pleased with the compromise. “That would be great,” Madison agrees. “Governor Tiffin in Ohio would be an especially big supporter of that. The opioid epidemic is out of control in Ohio, so he’s been trying to get some policies in place, but his Republican colleagues in the legislature are dragging their feet.”

“Maybe,” Jefferson cuts in, “we could have a set of federal standards for the programs but leave the design and implementation up to the states. And we could penalize states who didn’t reach standards. Or offer some sort of incentive.”

“States that reach the standards could receive block grants that they could use on infrastructure,” Morris murmurs, obviously deep in thought.

“The only thing is how would we fund the programs?” Madison asks. “Would the states or the federal government fund it?” 

“How about a mix of both?” Rensselaer asks, smiling. The other men nod. Jefferson absently picks up his cup of coffee and takes a sip, and George doesn’t miss the disapproving, yet fond look that Madison shoots him. It’s sweet. 

“Mr. President?” 

Everyone turns to the door as Betsy knocks and sticks her head in the door all in one movement. “Humphreys is here with a message from State.” 

George nods. “Alright, send him in. Thanks.”

Humphreys walks in and stands by the door, rocking on his heels. “Hello Congressmen, Senators,” he says, nodding his head politely. Then, turning to George, “Sir, I’m just here to let you know that the search and rescue in Ceylon is finally concluded. Randolph’s office just called to let us know that the different teams are concluding that they’ve done all they can.”

George nods. “How many dead?” Humphreys’s face falls and he bites his lip. 

“30,957,” he says quietly. 

“And how many missing” George asks, trying to keep his voice steady. 

“5,637.”

George nods tersely. “Thank you Humphreys. Can you tell Hercules and Toby that I’d like to make a statement this afternoon? I’d like the remarks on my desk as soon as possible, and make sure Toby informs the press.”

“Of course, Sir.” Humphreys nods and turns on his heel, suit jacket flapping. He closes the door behind him with a quiet click and George sighs, reaching up to rub his eyes with his fingers. 

“Well fuck,” he says, chuckling darkly. “Can you even imagine that level of devastation here in the United States?” 

“It’s awful, Sir,” Madison agrees quietly. George heaves a sigh and nods. 

“I hate to cut this meeting short, but I need to call President Gopallawa.” George stands up and shakes the men’s hands, sharing a look with Jefferson. Jefferson smiles and squeezes George’s hand before leaving with Madison, their shoulders brushing. 

“You okay love?” Alex asks as soon as they're alone. George rubs his face and sighs loudly through his nose. 

“I guess so. That’s just a lot to take in, you know? I can’t imagine losing that many Americans. I mean, think about it. Hurricane Katrina killed almost 2,000 and that was one of our most devastating natural disasters to date.” George sits down behind his desk and reaches for his desk phone. “Can you get Vice President Schuyler and Secretary Randolph in here? I’d like them to be present when I make the call.”

Alex nods and kisses George chastely. “Sure. I love you.”

“Thank you, Alexander. I love you too.” 

George sits back in his chair and closes his eyes, taking a few minutes by himself to just digest the new information. It’s almost unfathomable that so many people can be there one day and gone the next. 

Man vs. nature will always be an unfair fight. 

\---

“Hello, Your Excellency,” George says as pleasantly as possible, his last conversation with Gopallawa still fresh on his mind. 

“Hello, Mr. President,” Gopallawa says in his thick accent. George has the phone on speaker so everyone in the room can hear. 

“My state department just informed me that the search and rescue is finished. We’re sorry for how many citizens you lost. If there’s anything your country needs, please remember that the United States is here for you.”

“Thank you, Mr. President. My people appreciate your support.” 

So Gopallawa is obviously in the mood to play nice too. Death will do that—sober you up. Put things in perspective. 

“You’re welcome, Your Excellency. And please remember that the United States is willing to take in healthy refugees.”

“Of course, thank you.” 

George shifts in his seat, sensing that the conversation is coming to a close. “You’re welcome, and again, we extend our sincerest condolences to you and your citizens.” 

“Thank you, Mr. President. Good day.” 

The phone clicks as the call ends and George lets out a breath he didn’t realize he was holding. “Well,” he says, “that went well.” Everyone in the room nods, quietly murmuring their agreement. “Herc, I’d like those remarks on my desk within an hour. Do you think that’s possible?”

“Definitely, Sir.” George nods and waves his hand toward the door. 

“You’re dismissed, then. Thank you, Herc.” 

Everyone quietly files out of the room and George holds his head in his hands, trying to stave off the headache he can feel building at the base of his skull. 

“Mr. President?” 

George looks up as Betsy sticks her head in, smiling apologetically. “Mr. Hamilton is here to see you.” 

Before George can say anything else, Alex slips through the door and smiles. “Hey. You looked sad, so I brought you a Snickers.” George smiles and takes the candy bar, carefully pulling it open.

“Thanks.” Alex shrugs and smiles impishly. 

“No problem. It’s what I’m here for.” He plops down on the couch and yawns. “I’ve decided on tie colors, by the way. You’re wearing navy and I’m wearing dusk, which is the lightest blue in the color palette. I thought that would look nice.” George hums in agreement and nods. 

“Have you decide who your groomsmen are going to be?” 

“Angelica, Herc, and Humphreys. Please tell me that you have all of yours picked out too. Because they’re going to need to be fitted for tuxes if they don’t already own one.” 

“I’ve got Gilbert, Tallmadge, and Geo. Gil took Geo to get fitted for a tux earlier this week, so he’ll be good.” 

Alex grins and gives George a thumbs up.

“Perfect. I think everything’s gonna look great.” Alex closes his eyes and sighs. “I never thought I’d get married. After John and I broke up, I figured I’d just be alone, you know? And if I ever did get married, I told myself that I wouldn’t have some stupid, frilly wedding. But I think weddings are nice.” 

“I’m glad you’re happy, sweetheart,” George says as he walks over to the couch and pulls Alex’s feet into his lap. Alex is quiet for a few seconds before he pushes himself up on his elbows and studies George’s face. 

“Are you happy about the wedding?” he asks softly. George swallows and looks away, breaking the eye contact. 

“I’m just ready to be married to you.” 

“But are you happy?” Alex presses.

“Yes.”

Not a lie but not quite the truth. It’ll have to do for now.

\---

When George walks up to the podium, the cameras immediately start flashing, and he has to force himself to keep the pleasant smile on his face. He shuffles his papers a little nervously before taking a breath and squaring his shoulders.

“This morning, the state department reported that the search and rescue in Ceylon has concluded. I’m extremely proud of all the Americans who went there and helped, including the volunteers in the different aid organizations. A helping hand is the most precious thing that one country can give to another. America is going to stand with Ceylon, and we will continue to offer our support and assistance for as long as they need it. No country should have to suffer through such unfathomable destruction and heartbreak alone. Thank you.” 

George smiles one last time and leaves the briefing room, ignoring the journalists’ questions. Lafayette is waiting for him in the hallway.

“Nice job, Sir,” he says, patting George on the back. “You’ve done an excellent job handling this crisis.” 

“Thanks, Gilbert. I had an all star team helping me out,” George says. 

“Well, you know, if everything goes according to plan, I’d say that your next big undertaking is going to be your wedding,” Lafayette teases, elbowing George in the side. George rolls his eyes and shoves Lafayette’s shoulder. 

“Shut up. It’s just a wedding.”

“It’s the first gay presidential wedding ever. I wouldn’t say that it’s _just_ a wedding,” Lafayette points out. George glares at Lafayette, but he just grins. “You know I’m right.” George sighs and shakes his head.

“Yeah, yeah. Touché.”

Lafayette’s laugh echoes down the hallway. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm so sorry if this was like literal shit. 
> 
> Shoutout to that bipartisanship though!! If only that was how our real government worked! Speaking of bipartisanship (kind of), in lieu of the [recent healthcare debacle in the Senate,](https://www.nytimes.com/2017/06/26/us/politics/senate-health-care-bill-republican.html) I strongly urge you to contact your Senator!! 
> 
> You can find the info to contact the Senate through the switchboard/general mailing address [here.](https://www.senate.gov/general/contacting.htm) Or you can find your individual Senators and their contact info [here.](https://www.senate.gov/senators/contact/)


End file.
